The room didn't just grow quiet; it plummeted into a vacuum of sheer terror. The continuous, high-pitched screech of the EKG monitor carved through the air like a rusty blade. The rhythmic, monotonous tone was a death sentence written in green light.

The room didn't just grow quiet; it plummeted into a vacuum of sheer terror.

The continuous, high-pitched screech of the EKG monitor carved through the air like a rusty blade. The rhythmic, monotonous tone was a death sentence written in green light.

"Code Blue! Crash cart, now!"

The assisting nurse’s voice cracked, splitting the sterile silence wide open. In a fraction of a second, the calm, clinical discipline of the operating room devolved into absolute panic. Footsteps thudded against the linoleum. Monitors beeped frantically, signaling catastrophic fluid loss and a heart rate that had flatlined into oblivion.

And right in the center of the vortex stood Cameron Bennett.

The brilliant, unflappable Chief of Obstetrics—the man who had casually condemned his wife to a medieval nightmare—now looked as though he had been struck by lightning. His face had drained of every drop of color, leaving a sickly, translucent grey. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His hands, usually steady enough to perform micro-surgeries, hovered uselessly in the air, trembling violently.

"Cameron!"

Sophie shrieked, clutching at his white coat with theatrical terror.

"Dr. Bennett, what do we do? She's... she's not breathing!"

Cameron didn't push her away. He couldn't. His gaze was locked entirely on me—or rather, on the lifeless shell of the woman he had just systematically broken.

"Charge at two hundred," a senior resident shouted, frantically slapping conductive gel onto the paddles. "Clear!"

BAM.

My body jerked violently upward as the electrical current surged through my chest. The smell of scorched skin and ozone filled the air.

Still a flatline.

"Charge at three hundred! Clear!"

BAM.

Another violent jolt.

Somewhere deep inside the cold, dark abyss of my unconscious mind, a strange sensation took hold. The physical agony of the torn pelvis, the contractions, the brutal bruising from Sophie’s nails—it all melted away. The crushing weight of a ten-pound baby vanished. For the first time in hours, I felt weightless.

I could see them.

From somewhere near the surgical lights, looking down, I watched the tableau unfold. I saw my own pale face, slick with sweat and tear-tracks. I saw the tiny, squalling bundle of our son being rushed away by a frantic neonatal nurse to the warmer across the room.

And I saw Cameron.

He finally fell to his knees. The great Dr. Bennett, who had silenced me with a wave of his hand and accused me of weaponizing my own medical emergency, collapsed onto the tiled floor. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with dry, agonizing sobs.

"Amelia..."

The whisper was so faint, so utterly shattered, it barely registered.